


passive scenes so pathetic

by thisishardcore



Category: Columbine - Fandom, Historical Criminals RPF, True Crime - Fandom
Genre: Blood, Blow Jobs, Dysphoria, M/M, Pining, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Threats of Violence, Transphobia, eric harris has a pussy, misdirected lesbophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:07:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27919471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisishardcore/pseuds/thisishardcore
Summary: Boys kept cornering Eric in the corners of stairways, in the smoker's pit, until Eric flipped open a knife in his shaky fist, his voice clipping into an octave he didn't know he could reach. If one of them bled, they could never prove Eric was the one that split them open.
Relationships: Eric Harris/Dylan Klebold
Comments: 11
Kudos: 19





	passive scenes so pathetic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dahhhmer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dahhhmer/gifts).



> unbeta'd and mostly unedited sorry lol i know it's been awhile since i've posted here and i hope this isn't, uh, awful.
> 
> hope i go down in history as the pioneer of eric harris with a pussy thank you <3 also thanks to my gf for always enabling me

Eric knew his body well enough on certain days, had imagined himself with a flat chest and straight hips often enough to know all the ways it diverted. The plainness in his jeans, the ever-perceived curve of his chest no matter how far he hunched over, how long he left his binder in the dryer. He ran his hands down the line from the bottom of his ribs to the top of his hips over and over again, twisted this way and that trying to straighten it out, pushed in until the dullest of pain scratched up to his bones. 

His shirts did a miracle of hiding him. Winter gave him an excuse to wear the biggest sweaters he could find. The more he curled up inside of himself, the more he buried himself alive under layers, under bad posture and the sharp edge he always kept in his voice, the more people assumed whatever they wanted to and left him alone. 

Most people assumed Eric was a lesbian, hissed the word like an Apollonian curse. Barrenness and strife. Guys avoided him for the most part, the exception being the equivalent of a very stubborn soap scum. They kept cornering Eric in the corners of stairways, in the smoker's pit, until Eric flipped open a knife in his shaky fist, his voice clipping into an octave he didn't know he could reach. If one of them bled, they could never prove Eric was the one that split them open. 

The whisper of lesbian shifted to the accusation of "psycho". It made boys leave him alone at least. Though he did have to go to meetings with his school counselor every week. Every Friday during his free period like some kind of depressive.

Usually, it was empty before he went in. The smell of stale coffee and the rattling heater soaking into the cheap carpet, the aging walls. Eric would sit in these really awful chairs, would hunch and brood until the counselor called him in. This time he seemed to be waiting an awfully long time, and when the counselor _finally_ opened the door, there was someone else, tall and lanky, hat backwards, backpack slung over his shoulder. 

Eric thought about running off, hiding behind the chair. He stood still, hands at his sides. Dylan turned, towered over him, eyes running from the top of his head to his eyes where they stayed, his expression melting into some mix of confusion and intrinsic understanding. They didn't exchange a single word. 

Dylan walked off, hand gripping his backpack strap, eyes focused forward, and Eric watched him, counted the number of steps it took for him to be gone. The counselor was staring at him. Eric didn't know why Dylan would be coming here. He was always so loud when he got in trouble, he couldn't believe it was for a reason like his own. 

Dylan didn't know Eric had gotten in trouble. Dylan didn't know about the boys in the smoker's pit, or in the stairwells. He didn't know the strength Eric had when the handle of a knife was pressed into his palm. Eric didn't want to tell him-- Sure, bragging about it would be fun, and bitching about having to go to the counselor's office would probably help him feel less pissed off about the whole thing, but it would mean Dylan flipping his shit on his own, trying to get back at all the boys who had ever so much as looked at Eric sideways. It was the one consistent thing about Dylan's mood. 

But it would come up again, Eric knew it, and it was better to get in front of these things before Dylan started overthinking, working himself into a vodka-laced frenzy. And Eric didn't need that, didn't need Dylan feeling that angry-white-dad protectiveness he so often fell into. Eric didn't need anyone to fight his battles. 

And he didn't need Dylan seeing him as weak, like there was even anyone considering hurting him. He didn't want paternal. He wasn't sure what he wanted from Dylan. 

But it was better to get in front of these things. So Eric, three beers in, lying across Dylan's bedroom floor under the weight of three distinct layers of clothes, whispered the truth with the same breath that twisted with the winter air as the boy fell in front of him, as his blood hit the ground. If Eric lets himself drift far enough, he can catch the scent of iron. 

Dylan's voice pulls him back in. It's hushed, but nowhere is a trace of shame to be found. _I would've killed them_. And Eric knows he's telling the truth, and it should maybe scare him (there's something ringing in his head; this should scare him), but he's seen Dylan cry over a bad date, he's seen him throw up in the basement bathroom, folded over and crumpled. He's seen the way his eyes look when they first open in the morning, and he knows what it's like to be _accepted_ by Dylan. He would never hurt him. 

It's not scary, but it stirs something up anyway. A leap somewhere in his stomach, right next to the nausea. Dylan wasn't looking at him like he was weak. He just looked angry, all the lines of his face finding unusual sharp angles. The only word Eric could dig up in his grave of a chest was _fond_. A hesitant warmth wobbled in his chest. He wanted to lay his head on Dylan's chest and hear the spikes of his heartbeat, wanted to tell him every terrible thing that's ever been said to him and watch him transform it into a love language. 

Admitting any of that-- Eric would never. But Dylan looked over at him and all those lines softened. And he seemed to understand, in some way, to some extent. They would never say it out loud, and that would be fine. Eric is perfectly content believing in whatever impossible-to-prove metaphysical bond he could soak himself in. 

\-- 

This is out of genuine curiosity, Eric has to keep telling himself. Dylan's combat boots are on the opposite side of the room, by the stairs, and his pants are unbuttoned. Dylan says he would kill for him, the least he can do is show Eric his dick. He has questions. Or, he makes a convincing act of having questions.

Dylan doesn't move away, whatever unspoken bond they share is enough to keep him in place. Even when Eric's hand is moving up his thigh, both of them sitting next to each other, twisted towards each other somewhat awkwardly. Dylan keeps grabbing Eric's wrists and then letting go of them, breathing erratic. Eric can feel Dylan's heartbeat through the pulse in his thumb. 

Both of them know what this is, both of them have a flush rising to their cheeks, sweat pooling in all the crevices of their hands. But there's two worlds they live in, only one holds the truth of the matter. Eric folds the line between the two of them so easily by now that it's easy to believe whatever he wants. And what he wants to believe in is curiosity. A body so unfamiliar to him but so often dreamed about. 

There's a way that the lines of Dylan's body come together, and it's so different compared to the lines he's used to running his hands over. He draws his finger from the bottom of Dylan's rib cage to his hip. Nearly straight. Eric can count each one of his ribs. 

He's delicate, Eric realizes. His skin is spread so thin over his body, his hands move in small clicks, his mouth keeps opening, but there's no words in his mouth. He's made up of air carefully tucked into the shape of a boy. He is so temporary it hurts your heart to think about. There will be a moment where all the wind that makes him up is scattered into dust. There will be a moment where the impression of him, embossed onto the backs of Eric's eyelids, will fade and disappear with the rest of him. 

It doesn't matter then, Eric thinks. It doesn't matter that he wants to run his hands over all the straight lines of Dylan's body, and it doesn't matter that he'll never admit to why. He thinks of the look on Dylan's face when he was walking out of the counselor's office. He thinks of the years of promises, edges dipped in blood lust. He thinks of how every secret kept from Dylan feels like a hole burning in his throat. 

Eric drops to his knees, hands on Dylan's thighs. He's imagined this before, maybe not this slow, not this sweet, maybe not taking into account how the warmth of Dylan's skin interacts with his own, but he's imagined this before. And he's watched porn. This shouldn't be that hard.

It's just Dylan, and Dylan knows everything inside and out, knows Eric's every twitch and tic. It's just skin and warmth, and Eric has imagined this all before. He wraps his lips around the head of Dylan's cock, and if didn't know better, he would compare it to the moments between hymns, when the air is just incense and folded hands, all prayers simultaneously floating up gathering next to the smoke. Eric doesn't know how much of that stuff he believes in, divinity, and religion, and whatever. But he knows there's something about him and Dylan, something in the way they fit together, the way his mouth holds him. 

Eric knows he doesn't believe in any of those things outside this room. If Rachel-Whoever-The-Fuck were to come up to him and ask about his walk with Christ, he'd do something drastic, but maybe, in the basement, with just Dylan and the silence of a church, and his hands claiming space that's never been claimed before-- Eric can let himself believe in something. 

Union is always brought up in mass. Husband and wife melding together through the sacramental bond of marriage. Eric thinks this must be more intimate. He can feel Dylan's hands in his hair and the way they keep pushing him down, until he catches Eric's gag reflex.

The tears come quick, faster than Eric can push himself away. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, can't bring himself to look up at Dylan. He keeps running his tongue over his bottom lip, keeps remembering some girl in class telling him that it dries the skin out. He thinks of all the little parts of himself that could scrape against Dylan the wrong way. 

Dylan's whispering something, and it sounds like an excuse. It's fine, Eric tells himself, he's the one who went and made this weird, and he should've never said anything, and he should've never told Dylan about the boys outside school, should've never read into such a small glance. Dylan hates him, and it's fine, and the crushing weight in his chest is from all the cigarettes he stole, smoked behind his house, and nothing else. 

Dylan still has his dick out, so it's hard to take the look on his face seriously, and god Eric shouldn't be trusted to read his expressions, but his lips are on the verge of forming sound, his eyebrows pushed together. He keeps looking at the wall, then back to Eric. Eric keeps looking at the hem of Dylan's jeans. 

He feels so small. It washes over him all at once. Dylan holds so much of him, even all the things Eric will never tell him. He holds every secret and lie that makes Eric up. He could wreck him, and Eric would willfully sort through the aftermath. 

"C'mere."

It's said so awkwardly Eric could cry. But it's enough. The tightness in his chest doesn't go away, but he tramples over it on the way into Dylan's lap. 

Dylan looks at him like he's buried gold in his irises. He lays a hand on Eric's cheek. It's shaking. Eric kisses him. 

It's unsure what happens next-- Dylan's tongue or hands, but Eric is so quickly pulled apart that it's hard to find space to complain. It hurts, at first, Dylan tucking himself inside Eric, but there's something about the sting of it that pulls Eric's heart closer to his. He wraps his arms around Dylan, lays his head on his shoulder. His hips move in these jolting patterns, like he's learning how to drive, hand shaking on the clutch. But it's Dylan. And it's a union unlike the blood bond they made years before. 

Eric could cry. 

\--

Dylan keeps promising to blow their heads off. He says it in this slick, hushed tone that snakes inside Eric and bounces around his skull. He says this while on top of Eric, and Eric's sure an earthquake could happen right now and he'd be none the wiser. 

Dylan stumbles over so many threats of violence in the span of thirty seconds, Eric feels like nothing but a receptacle for them. He pictures Dylan standing over some underclassman prick, probably crying, probably pissing his pants. He pictures Dylan with the stature of Mickey Knox.

He whispers Vodka in his ear like an amen. 

When they're lying side-by-side, and Eric's worrying that he forgot to lock the door and his dad'll come in and see the blush Dylan engraved into his cheeks, Dylan takes Eric's hand. He doesn't turn to look at him, doesn't say a word, just interlaces his long fingers in Eric's, squeezes once, and closes his eyes. 


End file.
